The Dallas daily herald. [volume] (Dallas, Tex.) 1873-1887, 1887-10-08
Captain lie Mars Story.

Yeur, towards Tue suluii Dul Wci-caiou
for cemetery.
IL was n soldiers funeral A guard
walked beside the ilower-strewn bier.
Two in two. with bent heads, the
soldiers followed it. The muilled
drums beat heavily. "Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust they seemed to say.
Women looked from their windows
as the sad procession marched on.
"He is gone at last, this poor Cap
tain lie MARI said one.
"And happy release for him!" sigh
cd another.
"Never did brave soldier live with
so many wounds, such dreadful multi
ations. Yet he was handsome still-a
beautiful face; ] saw it in the coffin, "
said another.
Then they crossed themselves and
; went back to work.
One only of those soldiers returned
to the house in which their dead COM
rade had dwelt, after the ceremonies
were over the colonel OF the regiment
To him, in his dying hours, poor lie
Mar had given little note, in which
had read these words:
| MY Old Friend, When / am gone,
| desire you to take from my desk a
small packet of manuscript which you
will find there. 1t is the story of my
life. Even to you have been reticent
but now desire you to know all. You
5may think me mailman when you
have read the story; and, indeed, no
one can know whether he is mad or
not, but you know me too well to
suspect me of falsehood. The truth OF
\ what / have written is as absolute to
me as that of my own existence.
Read it and do what you will with it.
Yours ever, LIE MAR.
II was to obtain this legacy that the
colonel retraced his steps to the home
, of his dead comrade that day. AS LIE
Mar had said, he knew nothing of his
1 life save that they had fought together,
!. vet he had always felt that some mys-
! terry surrounded him, that there were
sorrows in the past too great to be
spoken of.
At the dead of night, in the solitude
of his own room, Colonel Mestayer I'M
rolled the paper covered by the words
I his friend had written, and read the
following story:
e Dear Mestayer. Before become a
| soldier lived with my father in cha
teau near Paris. / was his youngest
son, and in his way he was fond of me;
his kindness, however, depended al
!, together on my implicit obedience.
) L Ike most young men had fallen in
Y love. The object of my affection was
= not q lady of my own rank in life; she
was poor little shop girl named
Airline.
\ have always thought her the sweet
, est thing on earth; certainly her black
eyes and her long, glittering, waving
black hair were charms any woman
might have epvied. Inever mentioned
Airline at home, of course, that you
quite understand. Her grandfather was
n little old man who carved wooden
brackets for living, and they lived on q
fourth floor in very poor neighbor-
: hood.
i When / was five and twenty years OF
age my father said to me:
"Adolph, it N time for you to marry.
=, | have selected wife for you. 1t is
young Mademoiselle Moran"
"But l have no wish to marry"
said
, 81 desire it," said my father. mile.
Moran's beauty, position and wealth
render a most eligible wife for you.
Her father approves of you; he will
give you a fine portion, and, if you
!. marry according to my wishes, l will
settle a suitable sum upon you and
give you the pretty chateau at St
0 Sauveur, which you have always ad
: mired. can afford to be generous tc
n an obedient son, but, If ! am offended
: with you, what have your"
: mot a SOUS"
"Ah, WE'LL" said he, II see you un
derstand the situation.
He walked away from me well salts
fled. | remained where he had left
me. l asked myself what l should do.
| could not tell him that loved some
one else. Love had nothing to do with